Chapter 2
SYDNEY
The mountain roads wound higher as Kross drove, and I found myself relaxing into the worn leather seat of his truck. The tension I’d been carrying for weeks—months, really—started to loosen with every mile we put between me and that bus station.
“Wildwood Valley’s about thirty minutes from here,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Figured I’d take the scenic route. Give you a chance to see what you’re getting into.”
“I’d like that.”
He glanced over at me, then back at the road. “So. The bus ride. How bad was it?”
“Fourteen hours.” I shifted to face him better, tucking one leg underneath me. “There was a woman two rows back who snored like a freight train the entire way. And the guy next to me ate hard-boiled eggs for breakfast somewhere around hour six.”
Kross winced. “That’s rough.”
“The gas station coffee was surprisingly good, though. Small miracles.”
He almost smiled. Almost. He didn’t give smiles away easily, which only made me want to earn them more.
“What about you?” I asked. “You said you’ve lived here for a while?”
“Six years.” He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, and I noticed the way his forearms flexed beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel. Noticed and appreciated. “Moved out here after my mom passed. Needed a change, I guess. Somewhere quiet.”
“I’m sorry about your mom.”
He nodded, accepting my condolences without making it awkward. “She would’ve liked you. She always said I needed someone to shake things up.”
“Is that what I’m doing? Shaking things up?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?” He shot me another glance, this one warmer than the last. “That’s already more excitement than I’ve had in years.”
I laughed, and something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Like he hadn’t expected to make me laugh and wasn’t sure what to do now that he had.
“What do you do for work?” I asked, steering us back to safer ground. “You mentioned construction in your messages, but you were pretty vague.”
“Little bit of everything. Framing, finish work—whatever needs doing.” His shoulders loosened slightly as he spoke. “Keeps me busy.”
“Do you like it?”
He considered the question longer than most people would have. “Yeah. I do. There’s something satisfying about building things. Seeing something take shape that wasn’t there before.” He paused. “That probably sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t sound stupid at all.”
We rounded the curve at the bottom of the ramp, and the town revealed itself all at once—tucked away, hidden until you were right on top of it. To our right sat a charming building with an English Tudor facade, dark timbers crisscrossing white stucco. A sign proclaimed it the Wildwood Valley Inn.
“That’s where Bobbi holds court,” Kross said, nodding toward it. “She’s the one who helped me set up the profile.”
“She sounds like quite a character.”
“That’s one word for her.” He said it with affection. “She’s matched up half the guys in town at this point. Has a gift for it, I guess.”
“Or a meddling streak.”
“Probably both.”
Next door to the inn, sharing the same Tudor style and matching signage, sat the Wildwood Valley Pancake House.
Across the street, I spotted a building that looked like a rundown dive bar from the outside—The Soda Jerk, according to its sign.
A steep hill rose sharply to the left of it, blocking whatever lay beyond the ridge.
We continued onto Main Street, and the scenery shifted. An enormous fire station dominated one side of the road, all gleaming trucks and modern architecture. It looked almost aggressively new compared to the quaint Tudor buildings we’d just passed.
“New fire hall,” Kross said. “Town’s pretty proud of it.”
About thirty feet from the fire station sat a small trailer—modest, almost pitiful compared to its neighbor, but well-kept, with a neat sign out front.
“Vet clinic,” he continued. “Dr. Hanson runs it. She’s been working out of that trailer for a while now, but the permits finally came through for a real building. Should break ground soon.”
“That’s great.” I’d always loved animals. My parents had never let me have a pet—too messy, too much responsibility, too much of anything that might have brought me joy. “Maybe I could volunteer there once I’m settled.”
He looked at me then, really looked, and something warm bloomed in my chest at the approval in his eyes. “I think she’d like that.”
Across from the fire hall stood a honky-tonk called the Wildwood Ridge Roadhouse. Even from the truck, I caught a whiff of fried onions through the vents. Exposed beams were visible through the windows, giving it a rustic charm.
“Good food,” Kross offered. “Decent beer. Gets lively on weekends.”
“Noted.”
We left the town behind and started climbing, the road narrowing as the trees pressed closer. Pine and oak and something else I didn’t recognize, their branches forming a canopy overhead that dappled the afternoon light.
“Can I ask you something?” Kross said after a moment.
“Of course.”
“Why here? Why me?” He kept his eyes on the road, but the tension in his jaw was unmistakable. “You could’ve gone anywhere. Met anyone. Why pack up your whole life and come to some mountain town to meet a guy you’ve never seen in person?”
It was a fair question—one I’d asked myself more than once during that fourteen-hour bus ride.
“My parents,” I started, then stopped. Tried again. “Growing up, they controlled everything. What I wore, who I talked to, what I was allowed to want. They had this whole life planned out for me, and I was supposed to just…follow along. Be grateful. Never ask for anything different.”
Kross didn’t say anything. Just listened.
“When I told them I was leaving—that I’d met someone online and I was going to see if it was real—they tried everything.
Guilt, tears, threats. My mother told me I was throwing my life away.
My father said I’d come crawling back within a month.
” I took a breath, steadying myself. “For the first time, I didn’t cave.
I packed my bag, got on that bus, and didn’t look back. ”
“That took guts.”
“It took desperation.” I laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it.
“I spent twenty-three years being small and quiet and obedient, and I just…couldn’t do it anymore.
I want a life that’s mine. A partner who sees me as an equal, not a possession.
A big, noisy, chaotic family full of love and laughter and all the things I never got to have. ”
The words hung in the air between us, more honest than I’d meant to be. I waited for him to flinch, to pull back, to tell me I was too much.
Instead, he reached over and took my hand.
His palm was warm and calloused, rough from years of building things, and his fingers wrapped around mine like they belonged there. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The gesture said enough.
About two miles up the mountain road, Kross slowed and pulled into a wide turnout. “Wanted to show you something.”
I climbed out of the truck, and my breath caught.
The view stretched for miles. Layered mountains rolled toward the horizon, ridge after ridge fading from green to blue to hazy purple in the distance.
Below us, Wildwood Valley lay nestled in its hidden pocket, the Tudor rooftops and the gleaming fire station looking small and toylike from up here.
The afternoon sun painted everything gold.
“Oh,” I breathed. It was all I could manage.
Kross came to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him. “Best view in the county. Figured you should see it.”
I stood there for a long moment, just breathing, letting it sink into my bones. This place. This man. This life I’d chosen for myself.
“It’s beautiful,” I finally said.
“Yeah.” When I glanced over, he wasn’t looking at the view. He was looking at me.
We got back in the truck and drove another few minutes before his cabin came into view. It was modest—a single-story build of honey-colored logs, with a covered porch and windows that caught the fading light. Nestled among the pines like it had grown there, part of the mountain itself.
“Built most of it myself,” Kross said, and there was something almost shy in his voice. “It’s not much, but—”
“It’s perfect.”
He parked the truck, and I climbed out before he could come around to open my door.
The air hit me first—clean and cool and sharp with pine.
Then the silence, but not the suffocating kind I’d grown up with.
This was different. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that felt like a gift instead of a punishment.
Kross came to stand beside me again. “What do you think?”
I turned to look at him—this man I’d traveled fourteen hours to meet, who’d stumbled over his words and apologized for being late and held my hand like I was something precious. He watched me with hope in his eyes. And fear. Like my answer mattered more than he wanted to admit.
“I think,” I said slowly, “that I’d like to see the inside.”
Relief washed over his face. He grabbed my bag from the truck bed and led me up the porch steps, and I followed him through the front door into the life I’d chosen for myself.